


Vox Machina, Ever After

by aunt_zelda



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Cute Kids, F/M, Family, Fire, Future Fic, Gen, Growing Old, Growing Old Together, Happy Ending, Kissing, Musicians, Old Age, Other, Redemption, Religion, Retirement, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10631772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: How might the future go, for Vox Machina? Seven short vignettes musing on their possible futures.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why but last week I got in a mood and wanted to try my hand at this. I had some vague ideas about the futures for these characters, and started writing them up. 
> 
> Some possible futures I've imagined for the team. Got a little dreamy about it, but I'm in a mood.

1.

He flies through the air at sunset, gliding on unseen currents. When he lands, his feet are steady, and his gait is sure, pacing the familiar well-worn paths to a hut at the center of the village. 

The hut is not significantly larger than any of the others, nor is it made with finer materials. A few ravens perch on the roof, squawking at his approach. One flutters down to him and pecks at his hair, seeking shinies. 

“Kynan?” he asks.

The raven croaks and flutters off. 

He enters the hut, begins to wash himself. Most of the blood is gone, but there are flecks on his face, beneath his fingernails. He begins to strip himself of the armor.

It isn’t long before she arrives, bounding over the threshold to embrace him, nearly toppling them both over. She pulls back and seeks new wounds, tracing her hands over his shoulders, his arms, his torso. 

“I’m fine,” he protests, wincing as she finds a new scar, the ugly puckered trail of a knife. “Never mind that, what did I miss here?”

“Nothing.” She smiles teasingly. “Everything.” She helps him out of the remaining armor and eases him into bed. 

“Kynan greeted me, I think,” he murmurs. 

“He’s a bird most often these days.”

“Should we be worried?”

“No. It’s not uncommon among the Ashari. If that’s the form he feels most at peace with, so be it,” she shrugs. “Elaina only goes Minxy when things get too loud. I had a great-aunt like that.”

He nods, wondering idly whether to blame himself for his second son’s habit of taking flight as a raven. 

“Stop it,” she nudges him. “Rest now. There’ll be plenty of time tomorrow for the children.”

He makes sure to kiss her, deeply, full of promise for the morning to come, before falling back onto the pillows.

He does not dream. He has no fears, and no dark desires. He is content. He is at peace.

 

2.

The Baroness flings herself into the Harvest Festival each year. Though her official duties are to the Grey Hunt at Winter’s Crest, she rapidly commandeers duties at the Harvest as well. She judges the archery contests, awarding prizes to the hopeful youths of Whitestone, even including her infamous wink from time to time. She tours the displays of food with an appraising eye, a baby on her hip or a child or two in tow at her skirts depending on the year. 

During the day she views the festival, and by night she pours over the annual Tax Collection. Columns of numbers and stacks of figures, the Baroness tallies up the total sum of Whitestone over and over. Only once she has double-checked each figure does she rest, in a lavish bed positioned so that she overlooks the forest. 

She ventures into the woods frequently, sometimes with her children at her side, sometimes alone. Fleet of foot and stealthy of build, the Baroness and her children become as shadows among the trees. It is said that bears follow in their footsteps, not to hunt but to protect. No one within Whitestone’s borders dares slay a bear. 

Before the first frost, she slips out into the woods and scales a tree, taking her rest in the boughs (except when she is too heavy with child for climbing.) She revels, privately, in witnessing the changing of the seasons, in remaining in one place long enough to experience the turn of summer to harvest, harvest to winter, winter to spring. 

Though she roams, she no longer wanders. Though she is wild, she is content to make a home. Though she is sharp, she has found it in herself to forgive. 

 

3\. 

His strength fades, though not so much as he had anticipated. 

At first he thinks himself simply too strong for age to present a problem. Goliaths do not often live long, and his memories of his childhood with the herd grow fuzzier with each passing season. However, as he watches those around him start to slow, sees their physical strengths start to fade, he worries. If he cannot fight, if he cannot be strong, then what can he be? A liability, a burden even, he fears. What happens when he can no long grasp weapons, rouse himself to defend his friends and attack enemies? 

The stretches learned from the Earthbreaker help. The exercises seem silly at first, like something given to occupy a child, but after enough repetitions he sees the lessons behind them. Now he bends like a tree, rather than standing firm like a rock. Where he used to only see the red haze of rage, now he sees clearly and can anticipate the attacks of those foolish enough to try and best him. Before he would allow blows to rain upon his body and laugh, now his enemies can scarcely strike him at all. He is not as strong as he once was, but neither is he weak. 

There is strength in bending, in taking the energy shoved at him and returning it to its source. Though he would struggle to put it into words, he knows that it feels good. 

He can still fight. He can still defend the helpless, and attack those who would seek to do harm. 

“Show me what you have learned,” he rumbles, to those hopeful adventurers who come to him with restless feet and feral eyes. 

Most of them show him nothing new, but a few manage to surprise him. In his old age, he appreciates that. 

 

4\. 

He is courteous, well-informed, and an engaging negotiator. He is not the vivacious creature his wife is, he does not charm as easily as she, but he is a welcome guest at any diplomatic event. His white hair is not so odd now, rather it makes him as distinguished as his name suggests. 

Considering the stories of his youthful exploits, he is rather reserved and not at all the wild adventurer his hosts often anticipate. He is a retired hero, a family man, a politician rather than a mercenary. The faintest of tremors in his fingers betrays his past. (Old soldiers who meet him now recognize his hands as those that used to grasp weapons in the heat of battle.)

Perhaps his only fault is his early rest. He often excuses himself from parties long before midnight. Still, his hosts much prefer that to other faults a guest might display. His hosts retire for the evening none the wiser, thinking him an interesting and welcome guest.

He sneaks out of these castles, these manors, these strongholds, under cover of darkness. In the night, he seeks the secret places of the cities he visits, the places where noble men fear to tread. With enough money, enough threats, he finds the answers he seeks easily enough.

The workshops are often sorry things, squalid and vulgar, poorly stored supplies and crude prototypes. He melts the prototypes and destroys all he can, burns the blueprints and notes, burns the workshops for good measure. If he finds a tinkerer within, he renders them unconscious and leaves them in the street far from the flames. 

When he does this, he swears he can hear a woman’s laughter ringing in his ears. Over the yells and crackling flames, the memory of a harsh woman taunting him resurfaces, tells him that he cannot stop this, cannot halt human progress, cannot reverse what has begun. 

Deep within, he knows that this is true. However, he must try, he must continue to try, to slow the wheel if he cannot stop it. 

He wakes early in the morning, smiling at his hosts in their castles and keeps. They smile in return, and wonder why it is that they can smell the waft of smoke from a bonfire. 

 

5.

When she began, Sarenrae was not well known. 

She has lost count of how many roofs to temples she has raised up. Dozens now, dozens and dozens. (“Four, at least,” her buddy says, solemnly, beard going white in tufts now.) 

The roofs are taller than her by many times over. Yet she never feels small beneath them. She knows Sarenrae guides her feet, blesses her hands, protects her and watches over her. 

Her greatest joy is seeing people come to the temples in search of redemption and light. Vicious fighters who lay down their arms, fearful people who weep with relief, haunted people who finally let their burdens rest. 

She sees echoes of her friends and family in these people. The smile of a woman is Vex’ahlia, confidence in herself if not in the world. The laugh of a boy is Scanlan, bursting forth unbridled and unapologetic. The blood of a man writhing on her cot as she heals him is Percival, coat drenched in the blood of his enemies and himself. 

She heals, she listens, she consoles, she chastises, she waits, and she watches. 

Her mace hangs on the wall now, but it is always at the ready. There are still battles to be fought, still enemies to vanquish, though there are fewer now than before. 

Her buddy is never far from her side, a hulking mountain of a shadow even now. He no longer fears to tread within the temples, no longer feels himself unworthy. Together they are still an unstoppable pair. 

Sarenrae’s light spreads far and wide, bringing redemption to those who seek it. 

She hopes that she has done enough.

 

6.

There is an inn at the crossroads. It’s about half a day’s journey from the nearest city, close enough to still be in civilization, but far enough that slower travelers and those starting later in the day often stop in for a pint, a meal, or an evening’s rest. 

The innkeeper and her wife run a tidy establishment. They keep the ale flowing and the meals hearty and the beds clean. Their children scamper about, gnome feet padding along the floorboards. An elderly gnome rocks by the fire in a chair. 

In the evenings, any roughhousing is met with the innkeeper’s fists. For a small woman she packs a helluva a punch, and sends many a drunken hostler sprawling until morning. Mostly it’s just friendly scrapes though, they aren’t so far in the wilds that there’s any true danger about. 

Those who stay up late enough receive a rare treat. The innkeeper bandages her hands, takes a mug of all from her wife, and prods the old gnome awake. He rouses himself and takes an instrument from the wall. His old hands coax magic from harp, drum, fiddle, and strange instruments from far off lands. But the favored of all is the flute. The innkeeper joins him in that, and they seem to duel, music tangling and twining together. Hands clap and feet stamp and voices are raised in song. The old gnome tells tall tales and outlandish stories. All go to bed with their minds full of adventure and romance, heartbreak and triumph, resurrection and war. By night, they dream of mighty heroes, of dungeons and dragons, and of talking bears. 

Outside, the large purple hand that serves as the inn’s sign sways in the breeze. It seems to wave goodbye to those who leave, and wave hello to those who arrive. 

 

7.

She is many things in her lifetime. A gangly maiden: unsure of feet and fumbling of fingers. A triumphant warrior: coated in gore and thrumming with vengeance. A hero of her people: draped in the mantle of the generations before her. 

She is daughter, leader, mother, wife, sister, hero, murderer, teacher, and friend. 

She is elf and she is human. She is person and animal. She is serenity and she is chaos. Lover and loved. Descendant and progenitor. Beautiful and monstrous. Doubting and confident. Quiet and a Voice.

She flies through the air and burrows beneath the earth. She strides through trees and plunges into the ocean. She crackles with energy and rests in exhaustion. 

She loves a man marked by black feathers. She loves a woman scorched by lightning. She loves a person who burns with inner fire. She loves and loves and loves … 

She mourns. She rages. She listens. She instructs. She brings life and brings blight. She suffers and she exalts. 

She is many things in her lifetime; above all else she is herself.


End file.
